


Maria's Letter

by romanoff



Series: Blue Lips, Blue Veins [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Letters, M/M, Postnatal Despression, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maria tries to communicate in the only way she knows how, and the only way she has left.</p><p>(The Letter from the end of Blue Lips, Blue Veins. Can be read separately as a piece of Tony angst if that's your thing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maria's Letter

**Author's Note:**

> So a lot of people expressed interest in wanting to read what was in Maria's letter. So this is it! I wrote this near the start of the fic, like, 50,000 words in, and it hasn't changed much. So enjoy.

Anthony,

I am including this letter as a part of my will. Which, generally speaking, means that if you are reading this I am dead.

I have not left you anything. It is not your fault.

I am not doing it out of spite. I am not doing it because I hate you. There are many factors that lead to my decision, and the largest one is that your father is leaving you a sizeable sum. Enough, I think, to live very, very comfortably for the rest of your life and never lift a finger. I feel my money could be better spent on people who need it.

Secondly, Tony, I am concerned for you. From an objective point of view, you must think me hypocritical. Possibly negligent. However, from what I can see you drink too much. I fear you may be taking drugs. Please, Tony, you have to stop. I know that maybe you’re bored, or maybe there are other reasons, reasons that as your mother I should have addressed. I have not been a good mother, I am fully aware. Never let it be said that I am not achingly, acutely, aware of how I have failed my only son.

Because you are my only child. Surreal to think about. There was a time all I wanted was a child of my own. And there were others; you know by now about the trees in my garden. You know why they were planted. 

Are there days when you can’t get out of bed? When everything dissolves into mush? When you want to drop a weight onto your skull and let it push you deep into the ground? Is that why you drink? Because it could be excusable, Tony. If you get help.

I haven’t got help. Your father never got help. This makes us despicable people, Tony. There is nothing self-sacrificing in not admitting you have a problem. There is nothing poetic in struggling. There is nothing worthwhile about watching your son grow up in fits and bursts because you send him away to school, because you can’t bear to look at his face, because you don't want to see how you failed.

I failed you, yes. There are other things, as well. You are a lot like your father, Tony. I don’t know yet if you will turn out to be like him, in the end. I don’t think your father ever foresaw turning into what he ended up. Your father was a good man, Tony. I mean it. I would not have married a cruel man.

That being said, he does have a cruel side. So do you. I’ve seen it, I’ve seen how you talk to people you do not like, to people you consider beneath your notice. That is not necessarily a bad thing. People have bad sides. And you'll need it. I know your father plans on leaving you his estate, naming you heir. You'll need to be cruel, Tony, and you'll need to have a kick. And maybe it was my place to teach you that but, I have already mentioned, as a mother my talents are lacking.

You are also immensely kind, Tony. Immeasurably. That I have seen since you were a child. And if even I have seen it, you can be sure it’s real because I barely ever saw you at all. I see less of it in you today, because life has dulled your kindness at the edges. Life has taken that spark you carried with you and eroded it into something round and no longer sharp. It is easier to be cruel, I know. But you're my son, and I was kind once. And your father can be. I won't pretend you've won the luck of the draw with genetics, Tony, but on that count we don't entirely fail.

I don’t have many happy memories. I remember once you shaking me, though, trying to wake me up. I batted you away, of course. But still, you covered me in a blanket. 

I saw cruelness in the way you screamed at me, Tony. Do you understand your father’s rage? When you screamed, I saw it in you. You would of hurt me if you could. Could you understand that your father, so long beaten down by others around him, jaded, with a dream that was snatched from under his feet, could you understand why he would feel the way you did when we took Jarvis from you? How it could lead him to be so cruel?

Your father was is a very kind man. Which you don’t see. Which you will probably never see. He built weapons because he thought, at his very core, that he would be helping people. At the time, Tony, that was what life taught him. Maybe life will teach you something different. Your father saw war, and he acted accordingly. You fight a war with soldiers and those soldiers need weapons.

(On a side note, you may wonder how I’ve felt about this all these years. The truth is, Tony, I stick to my religion, at it’s basis although I can no longer say I believe in a God. And I know you ignored most of my conversion attempts, but the Catholic church, at it’s core, believes in peace. I can tell you honestly that I abhor war, but appreciate what your father was trying to do)

I am not excusing his actions. I am writing this letter, right now, because he just smashed a bottle over your head because he sent away Jarvis. There is no way to express on paper how sorry I am. I am sorry that Jarvis had to go because I know you loved him, and I know he loved you, and I know your father loved him, too. I don’t know how much you know about that, Tony, but read into it what you will. Your father sent him away with good reason, although I think it broke his heart to do so. He smashed the bottle over your head because you told him the truth, Tony. You showed him what a bitter old man he has become.

You were bleeding when you left. I hope you’ll be alright. I think it might need stitches. You probably have a concussion. It’s not safe to let you drive on the roads. I should have stopped you and yet I didn’t. Tony, I don’t know why. Tony, I am sorry. I’m sorry that you had to have me as a mother, because when I saw you drive away all I felt was a vague concern. I don’t know if it’s the depression, or the drink, or the pills the doctor gave me but watching you drive away I felt nothing. All those years, watching you drive away to school, and you always waved from the back and I never felt anything at all.

It’s not your fault. It is nothing you have done. I am just a sick woman. Genuinely sick and it hurts to write and I’m sorry. 

You remember the baby that died, Tony. That Christmas where your father tried to take you away. Did you know that it wasn’t the first? That you, in fact, are not my first child? Those trees, Tony, in the garden that you love so much. Those three trees. I never got around to planting a fourth.

You had a sister. When your sister was born, Tony, I was happy. I was so happy to have a child. And I think, when she died, all the love I could give a child went with her. Your father took a turn for the worse, after that. He drank more. You were a miracle that was not supposed to happen.

As I was saying, I do not excuse how your father and I have treated you. To grow up without parents is unforgivable. To grow up unloved is abhorrent. To grow up with two alcoholic parents is horrific. And I cannot put onto paper the weight of the injustice thrown upon you by us, made worse by the fact that it was completely avoidable.

The difference, however, is that your father loves you. And so do I. But what I feel... it is not the love a mother should feel for her child, certainly. When I say I am sorry, I say it almost from an objective viewpoint. Any outsider would weep if they saw what we did to you. How we send away the only man that ever cared for you in this house, the only person that ever injected interest into your life, and didn’t tell you where he went.

I tried, when you were younger. Years went by with me worrying I was insane. What sort of mother feels nothing for her child? It starts, I believe, that when you were born I did in fact despise you. I hated having my freedom impugned upon, I hated your shrieking, wailing face, I hated that you would grow up to be like your father, a man I do in fact despise despite being aware of his illnesses. I nearly killed you, Tony. I was going to smother you and tell everyone you had died, just like my little girl.

I didn’t, obviously. And as the years turned into decades I gave up trying to force myself to love you. Truth is, I haven’t loved anyone for a very long time. Your father, maybe, at the beginning. My brother. That first baby. I can count on one hand the people I can honestly say I love and I’m sorry that you are not on it.

But I am aware of how wrong this is. And am aware that this is sick. That’s why I am writing this letter.

To apologise.

For being sick. For being ill. For being such a poor, poor excuse for a mother. I shudder to use the word, really, because what I have been to you is not a mother. But let me explain.

When you were born, I was sick. After, how many children, two, three, four, my lost girl, when you were born I could not bear it. Could not bear you. With your crying and your shrieking and up all hours of the night. Howard would leave early and come back late and I was with you all day. And I'm ashamed to say that there were times I simply ignored you. I would go about my day as if you didn't exist. I'd hear you crying in your cot and I'd be able to tune you out, even when your face turned red from the screaming. 

You could have died. I won't say you didn't because you're a survivor. The reason you didn't die was because Jarvis would intervene but he could not be there all the time. And it was selfish of me to sit there, on the piano, wilfully ignoring you. And I've never told anyone this. I've never breathed a word to anyone, but that day, I broke. And I stood over your crib. And I was so, so close to bringing the pillow over your mouth and ending it. Ending you. Ending me, probably. Howard would have gotten me the death penalty if he could, killing his only son.

But I didn't, obviously. I picked you up. And I held you in my arms. I would like to say that at that moment, I was freed of my hideous neuroses. That I finally saw you as my son and we bonded intensely over a moment's eye contact, mother and child. That didn't happen. But holding you -- holding you for the first time, as it happens, because I refused point blank to hold you before -- was like getting over a fear. You didn't bite. I didn't feel sick. You didn't crumble to ashes in my arms. You were just a baby, and I was your mother. And I had brought you into this world and I should damn well take responsibility for it. 

Do you have any fond memories of me? I wouldn't think so. We never did spend much time together. I covered the basics, mainly. And when Jarvis left SI and came to work at home permanently he took over. For which I am eternally grateful. That man loved you, Tony, even then. You were his little man. I am so glad you had him and conversely, he had you.

But you wouldn't talk. You didn't speak a word until you were four, pushing five. By that point we were desperate. Howard was convinced you were a mute. I blamed myself. I was sure I had read something somewhere which said children who weren't loved enough had all sorts of developmental delays. Not a single 'mama' or 'daddy'. And when you did speak, there was the stutter.

It's around this point I fell in love with another man. Now I know that sounds awful. You're young, so I can't expect you to understand. Your father and I did not have a working relationship. And he was old. After your birth, after my illness, after his drinking, relations worsened. I ended up falling in love with one of his best friends.

I know how this must sound. No boy should have to hear about their mother's escapades, and I won't horrify you with them here. But you remember the baby, don't you? The last one, the last one I lost. I had plans. I was going to leave your father. I was going to raise this new baby on my own. I thought my lover would take me in, or that somehow we would be able to have a life together. I was dreaming. The baby died. Nick consoled me, for a time, but then Howard found out. After that, I rarely saw him again.

And so I started drinking more. I know I drink. I know it's a problem. I know I can't sit here and criticise Howard when I'm just as bad. And above all, Tony, I hope you don't too. I hope you never, ever become a drinker. It's in your blood, insanity's in your blood. Tony, if you're reading this, please never forget: with your genes and your money, you have every chance to become a monster. Do not let that happen.

I feel I should put a word in for your father. He has not got long left. If you're reading this, and he is still alive, then please, take you chance while you still can. Talk to him. Try to understand him. You only have one father, Tony. While I am damaged, and most likely incapable of love, your father does love you. More than anything, I think. And he's broken, too, he doesn't know how to show it. I forget, we all forget, he was a war man. He saw things. And years of building weapons hardens you. Although he's not a sentimental man, I can know he wants the best for you.

He makes mistakes. He just hit you over the head with a bottle. We've both very, very flawed. Your father does not know how to show love and he does not know how to treat you. The age gap is too big. He's too retreated. Maybe when you're older. I know, certainly, that when you are older you will understand.

There are other things I can't say. Things I'm not allowed to say. What I will say is this: there is a world you don't know about, Tony. And it's a world your father will do anything and everything to keep you out of. We are inherently selfish people; if continuing to build missiles is what allows you to have a straight, clean, easy life, then Howard will ensure that this is what you do. I can't believe I've written all of this. I've sat on it for so long, but you should know. And I'll have this delivered as part of my will.

I don't know, Tony. You're my son. I love you. I love you because you're my son, and because you are my blood. And you look like your uncle. I love you because you're clever, and you're sharp. When I first had you I was terrified you would grow up to be your father. Irrational, because I do not despise Howard. But I couldn't bear the idea of a son. And I could not hold you.

But I was wrong. If you grow up to be like your father, so be it. It will be my own doing. A child needs love, a child needs respect. I sent you away. I forgot birthdays and Christmasses, I told you awful things. If you can forgive me for anything, even if you can't let go of my neglect, please try and forget the things I told you. When I sick, when I was drunk, the mind goes to a nasty, dead place. Please don't remember me like that.

I don't know how I want to be remembered. Will anyone remember me at all? Will I just be known as the woman who brought Tony Stark into the world? A footnote in your story? Maybe. I hope so. If there's a world where your parents are relegated to the first chapter of your life, where Howard is forgotten, if it's a world where you're so bright that you overtake every other star, then it's a world I don't doubt I would want to live in.

And I mean that. There are many ways you can turn now, Tony. When we die, what will you do? We haven't led you. The man you become will not be of Howard and I's doing. We can only influence you so far, and if I'm honest with myself, we have influenced you for the worse.

So what will you do? Can I offer advice? Can I even presume to do that? Listen, Tony, because this it the only piece of advice I will ever give you: don't follow your father. Don't become a lonely patriot. Don't become an alcoholic. This is all self-explanatory. But Tony, please, if I can say one thing, do not let your pride be your undoing. Not like Howard. Don't refuse help, never refuse help. If you are so lucky to find someone who wants to help you, take it. If you ever -- God forbid -- find yourself low, do not be afraid to ask for help. Howard never did. He never does. He's dying because his drinking has drilled holes in his liver and he never wanted to ask for help.

I'm not telling you to trust; the world is an ugly place. But never let paranoia take your brain like it's taken Howard's. Don't drink, if you can avoid it. Try your best, maybe.

I don't know, Tony. Help people, where you can. I always wanted to. I wanted to help the people who came from where I did. I never talk about that, where I've come from. Where you've come from. You're an American boy, through and through, but I'm not. Your father isn't. We're both false in that way. Both pretending. I'm the good wife, to an extent, but he puts up with me, too. We're matched for each other in that way. I know he will never love the way a man should a love a woman, but I've reconciled myself to that. Maybe I don't need love. Maybe I don't deserve it.

I don't know how much you are like me, Tony. I see your father in you, but... but maybe I'm there, too. Like I said, you are kind. Do not let that be dulled at the edges.

I love you. You are my only child. You are the only legacy I have left to give. And I should have chased you tonight. After Howard smashed that bottle on your head, I should have chased you down. Told you this in person. Maybe you won't read this for many, many years. Maybe after Howard dies we grow close. I would like that, Tony. To get to know you as a friend. God knows, I've failed you as a mother. I want to see the man you will grow to be.

So I hope, one day, that we may be able to reconcile. Whether that be here, on this earth, or in the eyes of God.

With love,

Your mother, Maria.

P.S. I hope you get home safely.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved! Just on what you think, if you've read Blue Lips, Blue Veins and thinks this makes sense, whatever. I'm going to end this series officially now, but I'm writing some more stark-family angst soon. Because who doesn't love some of that.


End file.
